Black and White

The first time my students saw the picture of Emmett Till's beaten, bloated, disfigured face, their reaction wasn't one I expected. Typically we react to something disturbing with jokes. There's always someone in a crowded movie theater of a horror movie who blurts out something sarcastic to ease the mood of the room, to make everyone remind themselves that it's just make believe. Reality is a bit different. It's tough to see those old black and white photos. Black and white photos are the indicator of authenticity.

My fifth grade students have seen the PBS documentary, "The Murder of Emmett Till," for the past two years. I usually wait until completing chapter 22 of "To Kill a Mockingbird," just after the jury convicts Tom Robinson of raping a white woman. It's always the best part of the book, reading those courtroom scenes, trying to channel my inner Gregory Peck. 

Emmett Till is not widely known by my students, and I didn't know much about him until I got into college. His story echoes the lynchings of the south, again punctuated by those grainy black and whites, a crowd of unidentified white men surrounding their catch. His story is an effect of what Atticus Finch calls, the "evil assumption" that all Negroes cannot be trusted around white women. I first saw this in the lives of some of my friends and their parents. "What would your parents do if you dated a black guy?" "Kill me," was always their response. (Jokingly, my mom always told my sister that if her black boyfriend looked anything like Eddie Murphy, so be it.) I also witnessed this through my own family. My step-father's had several wounds from his sisters dating outside their family's comfort zone. Because one husband was abusive and left his kids, all black men were not to be trusted.

This irrational fear harked back to the film "Birth of a Nation." D.W. Griffith's cinematic addition to what was then a masterworks in film making was peppered with a story line where the KKK were the heroes. In stilted black and white, accompanied by the simple melodramatic composition of all silent films, were images of men in blackface. Black faced men who perpetuated the stereotypes and biases I was familiar with almost 80 years later in Houston. Black people eat fried chicken. They're lazy, they're scary and good white folk seen to be saved from them.

The young Emmett Till, brash and free spirited, didn't understand this irrational fear still existed in Money, Mississippi. The details are still murky, but the story is he reportedly whistled at Carolyn Bryant. Fearful she was getting a gun in retaliation, Emmett and his cousins left Bryant's store in a hurry and didn't say a word to Mose Wright, Emmett's uncle. When JW Milam and Roy Bryant, Carolyn's husband, arrived several days later in the middle of the night and kidnapped Emmett, it must have been a shock that many blacks feared would happen to any one of them. In fact, when Mose gathered a search party to look for the missing Emmett, who had already been killed, they looked down by the river in the familiar place blacks always searched when a loved one was missing.

The story of the trial is infamous too. Sheriff Strider, the archetype of all backwoods, southern racist cops. The ironic city motto of Sumner, where the trial was held, that read, "A great place to raise a boy." The town where black men were afraid to answer news reporter's questions about Milam and Bryant's innocence. Sheriff Strider, who hustled the members of the Chicago media and the NAACP into a small room and said, "Hello, niggers," each day.

But the story switches to the courage of Emmett's mother, Mamie Till. A mom who had only the ring on her son's finger to identify her son's body. She requested that his viewing be an open casket. It was reported that almost 1 in every 5 people had to be escorted from the grotesque scene of Emmett's bludgeoned face. But the visceral scene proved important for many in the community and the nation as well. "We were under attack," many thought, and here was the proof.

Emmett Till's death and aftermath did not occur in a time of social media we have now. The photo was jarring enough for all America to awaken to something that was beginning to brew. Just a few months later, Rosa Parks refused to move on that Alabama bus and the rest is history. There was no one that filmed Rosa's defiance with a camera phone. In Selma, and in protests that turned violent in Birmingham, all of America was privy to what many African-Americans knew all along, that the system of segregation had serious flaws.

Today, there are budding journalist with an eye on each arrest. How many fugitives will be shot when the hand that arrests them reaches for their handgun instead of a tazer? Ferguson erupts. Now Baltimore. There is an underlying issue that gets pushed aside through the images of looting and burning cars. The investigation into the police tactics in Ferguson unearthed a justice system made to foster a revolving door of burden on the citizens, predominantly African-Americans. Harassment, tickets, arrests. During my stint with the court system here in Columbus with my expired license, I did not see an overflow of black men in court. It was about 50/50. But imagine this is part of your life in the town you reside. Always looking in the rear view mirror, worried that eye contact with a police officer will give you away (indeed, Freddie Gray's "crime" was running away from law enforcement after a similar confrontation).

Is the justice system stacked? That's today's open debate. But the same irrational fear whites once had for blacks has now been turned. Do we have an irrational fear of cops?

There's been a video making the rounds from the streets of Baltimore, of a mom who is corralling her son in an effort to remove him from the protests. She's yelling and hitting him upside the head. Would Mamie Till have done the same to any of her kin on the streets of Chicago after her son's death? Mamie took a different stand. She continued to speak for the NAACP and took her case all the way to the steps of the white house. President Eisenhower and J. Edgar Hoover did not even act, nor speak  on the injustice of that case. Similar feelings run through my mind when our president, a black man, refuses to get on the world's stage and condemn these very acts of riots (he finally did just today).

The media wonders why there is so much anger in the streets of black America. These youth are all searching for something lost years ago--the absence of their fathers. The brave men and women of the Civil Right's Era were moved by the injustices, yes, but don't forget the movement of God. The youth of yesterday attended church, they organized in church. How can you rightfully discuss Martin Luther King Jr. without bringing up the importance of one's faith.

I'm not sure how much faith these young men have anymore. With their father's gone, their mother's exhausted, where can they turn to when the pulls of life turn desperate? The scenes are so strikingly different. The march on Selma, arm in arm in harmony. In Ferguson, a line of men screaming obscenities and launching homemade molotovs. In one scene in Birmingham, dogs attack protesters, others are showered from a fire hose. In Baltimore, a line of armor wielding cops being peppered with stones. The color photos I search for on the internet for our essays this week seem so surreal. I almost expect them to be in black and white, a flash from the past that reminds us all of our sordid histories, the way we turned from justice. Sadly, they will be the pictures for a new generation. How will my grandkids look back on today's events? I doubt it will be as simple as black and white.

Trusted Random Male Adult

After spring break, most teachers can be heard saying, "It's all downhill from here." There's this sense that every lesson we've taught them goes by the way of pollen from a dandelion. In some sense this is true. The kids seem a bit louder, a bit more mischievous. But we as teachers lower our guards as well. We aren't the same teachers we were when it was August, when we were stricter with the rules. We smiled less. Already in my building some teacher has written the inevitable countdown of days until summer. Like the rites of passages that my fifth graders endure and partake, so thus are the ones for teachers.

Every spring my fifth graders have the puberty talk. The nurse comes in to set the standards about appropriate questions and the privacy of the room. We separate the girls from the boys. The girls get booklets and tampons (at least that what they've given them before), while the boys always receive deodorant. Once the talk is over, the kids come back to their homerooms, hiding their materials and looking down at the floor. There's typically one boy of mine who will mock the proceedings and spill the beans about what we learned, and there is usually one of my girls who does the same. 

This year the video we always watch was discarded in favor of a newer one made from Always feminine products.  The older video follows the story of a young kid who is having the "talk" with his older brother about pubic hair and the need for more showering. Another has a young boy talking with his mom about boners. Typical stuff. My students muffle their laughter when the word "penis" is uttered.

This year's video was a bit more upbeat. There's some singing and dancing. Instead of following certain characters, we have a group of kids, both girls and boys, who enthusiastically ask questions into the camera that are answered by some off-camera expert/narrator. When it comes down to the end of the session, the girls are given the advice to talk with their mothers or another trusted woman. Next a young boy comes on screen. "Who do I talk to when I have questions?" I'm thinking the first person the narrator will suggest is their father. Instead I was surprised by the answer.

Step-father.
Uncle.
Grandpa.
Trusted Random Male Adult.

Just where are today's fathers? Did we suddenly skip a generation where fathers simply became grandfathers. Did all the fathers die, leaving behind their brothers? Were the step-dads left to pick up the messes of a broken marriage?

On the news, as the media chases the van of Hillary Clinton, presidential hopeful, I have begun to sense the next narrative of our country. It's the women's turn, they will say. More than that, the questions each side will be presented with have already been driven home. The Republican candidate are asked about abortion and attending gay marriages. Hilary's toughest question this past week was whether or not she wanted guac in her Chipotle bowl.

But herein lies the conundrum. We are getting exactly what we want, exactly what we deserve. In the time before Jesus, the Isrealites wanted a ruler, a king, like their sister nations around them. God warned them that the king would take their sons into war, take their daughters as concubines, take their first fruits as tax. No amount of reason would deny the people a king. So God gave them what they wanted--broken men, corrupt men, men whose wills were not of Gods.

Look at today. Our wills have now splintered off from God so far, they aren't even considered Satan's any longer. So many wheels in a machine, all spinning towards one inevitable conclusion--death. I hate to get so defeatist in this blog, but my death awaits too. More so because my will doesn't always coincide with God's either.

The redeeming factor in all of this is the Bible is filled with stories about men (and women) trying to go about their lives on their own. Sometimes men did not see their own qualities and asked for help when God would have simply sufficed. Moses didn't believe in himself, so God granted him Aaron. Like who needs a sidekick when God is raining down plagues? Sarah laughed at God when she was told she would have a child in her advanced age. Abraham, who probably began to doubt God's word as well, took it upon himself to lay with Hagar, his servant.

We've been telling God all along--we got this, but we have no idea what we've wrought upon ourselves. We bitch and complain about gay marriage and gay v Christian bakeries. We're so insistent on what is considered an abomination we've failed to realize all the other way we've become abominations in the eyes of the Lord. You think he's happy with how we've conducted ourselves within our own families when today's father would rather be watching tv or coaching instead of opening their son's bibles?  We moan about marriage being between a man and a woman, like God intended. But did God intend for quickie marriages in Vegas? We can click and scroll through the pictures of celebrity weddings, then scoff when their marriages end in the matter of months. We turn a blind eye when members of our own families marry for reasons that go way beyond God's best. But we're worried about gay marriage? We've lost the argument years ago.

There is a simple beauty in seeing the love of a man towards his wife. I'm sometimes stunned with the amount of love a father can give his own kids in my presence of some friends. So easy and natural to be that vessel of love that God intended. I sense love in the sounds of the men at church who decide to sing, or raise their arms in church. You know how many men stood around me without singing? Why stand before your God in mute somnambulism?

Even when I'm not at my best, the God lenses I try to see my world with don't ever go away. There's nothing I could do to have my old life back. Nor do I want it. Sometimes I try to have those old feelings, the thoughts that brought my world down when I wanted everything my way. It's the hardest thing I know to give my life over to God. If a Christian tells you otherwise, well, I'd like to hear their story. I'm not saying it's not easy to do right. Many times I want to do the right thing. Other times it's so much easier to get a second glance at the woman walking by. It's easy to take a nap and not interact with my own kids. The ease to which I try and make my life simpler is the sin itself.

This past few weeks I've been praying that God begins to change me. I need help walking that narrow path. I've made it harder because I've disconnected with some of the friends or rituals that make my life unique. Sure enough one of my students this week comes to me during library to ask me some questions. She's part of a program we have at school for leadership of which she's filling out some questions for their next meeting.

Mr. Cordova, can people change?
Mr. Cordova, how long does it take for someone to change?
Mr. Cordova, what does a person have to do in order to change?

It was Jesus in the form of a 5th grade girl, asking me the rhetorical questions I so desperately needed. You've already changed, Mr. Cordova, don't you see that?

And this week at church I got the chance to teach again in front of the junior high kids. The topic? Community. Who do we go to when the times get tough? Who are those that are willing to walk alongside us when we think God isn't able to answer our prayers? I looked around that room and found myself back at home. This is the change I have sought all along, staring right back at me.

I believe that change begins in a man's heart. I don't know how many people God will surround me with, how many students I get a chance to help find themselves. Waking up tomorrow will be the best sort of gift anyone can get. It means another chance. Another chance to live and affect the change in my own circle of influence. I can't feed 5,000 but I can listen, one person at a time.

Expiration Date (Healing has no Deadline)

So today I became an official licensed driver (again).

As many of you know I'm not a teenager nor did I have my licensed suspended for some misdemeanor offense. My crime? I let my license expire. Like way expire. 6 months expire. And for the last month I've had a life lesson as I've tried to navigate through the process of getting everything renewed, which included my license plate tags as well.

I haven't always been good with deadlines. Obviously for a man who lets something go that long, it's become almost easy to look the other way when it comes to meeting certain requirements. Even back when I was in high school, I can't say that I was great with homework or due dates. Like lots of every other kid I knew, I blew off homework and studying until I needed to get serious. It cost me some grades early on as a freshman. Not taking my grades seriously, I failed almost all my classes and was ineligible for sports. Not a happy house I went home to for a few months.

I worked hard to get my grades up to par after transferring to another high school. When it wasn't my grades I procrastinated on almost everything else, much to the frustration of my poor mom who was always cleaning after me, and my step-dad who probably felt I wasn't worth the time. By my third high school, I had done just enough to get by. When the class or subject interested me, like journalism and my writing classes, I gave more of an effort. Probably never 100 percent effort. I don't think I ever knew what that was. I surely didn't give it in sports, and I surely did not give it in other aspects of my life. I knew it was not a way I was ever going to be successful. Despite my step-dad's blue collar profession, he regularly gave all he had at work and even more when he was involved in sports on the weekends. My mom was a hard worker too. It wasn't like she napped all day and smoked cigarettes on the porch. 

By the time I got into college, I knew my work habits would eventually catch up to me. When any of my classes became tough I slacked off even more. Eventually I dropped out after only a semester. I couldn't juggle the demands of my first ever girlfriend-distraction, school and work. My first trial as an adult was an all-out failure of epic proportions.

I knew that my tags and license expired this past August. I initially gave it some priority on my typical "I'll-get-to-it" calendar. Once school started, I never gave it another thought. The one thing that has changed about my driving habits is that I don't really speed or drive recklessly. I stayed away from having tickets as of late even when I was averaging 2 citations per year. Speeding here, not wearing a seat belt, a few rolling stop sign run throughs too. But I've been pretty good lately. But when your tags are expired it's like a beacon of light to a cop driving behind me.

I took a day off to take care of the license renewal. When I arrived I was told that since it was expired I needed to have a birth certificate, social security card and a utility bill to get them renewed. I had everything but the birth certificate. I tried locating a copy at home, going through old files to no avail. I eventually sent a request through to my home state of Texas, paid 20 bucks and was told it would take up to 3 weeks.

3 weeks later, with my birth certificate in hand I went back to try and renew. In that time I had sent in my payment for my traffic violation in the mail. More on that later. With the extended time I needed to get that birth certificate, the license had now expired over 6 months, which meant I had to start from scratch and sign up for a driver's test. It also meant I could not renew my tags.

Later that week, my attempt to pay my ticket through the mail came back. I now had a warrant for my arrest because I did not appear in court. In my defense, the cop did not check the must appear in court box on the bottom of the ticket. So my poor wife who's been my taxi for that time now has to drive me downtown so I can get this ticket taken care of.

I don't know if you've ever been in traffic court, dear reader, but not much has changed. Long lines, bailiffs who silence the crowd with please-keep-it-downs that sound more like demands, and all kinds of chances to people watch. One woman in front of me was taking a selfie and posting it on Instagram. Various individuals wearing hats that were told to remove. Young men having to pick up their pants. A woman wearing a hijab was continually going up to the bailiff and the prosecutor to ask questions. I think she was in some kind of hurry. A woman in her pizza delivery attire, looking very stressed and late for the day.

I sat up close to the front row so I heard all the whispers and "crimes" of the defendants. It gave me a time to creatively wonder why they were there, only to realize that many of them were in the same boat I was in. I didn't realize how many non-licensed drivers there are in Columbus. Some had suspended licenses too, which meant heavy fines or jail time. I started to freak out about my own fines, which was a lower misdemeanor that carried a possible maximum 1000 dollar fine. I'm texting my poor wife who had went back home and was now circling downtown waiting for me to finish.

I finally received good news when I was given a continuance to finish getting my license and tags renewed. That week prior I had went to get a permit. I had to take a computerized driver's test. I'm sitting in there with teenagers and I freaked out a bit at the thought of failing the test. I missed a few questions about weight requirements on the road and how many cars I need to be behind another driver. Permit issued.

With my permit in place, I was able to get my tags renewed. I was dancing in the parking lot. This morning I went back to take my driving test. I had to review a chart to make sure I knew what the maneuverability portion of the test was. Thankfully I didn't have to parallel park but I did remember my first time ever driving test as a teenager. I failed that day (that's another story!) and I was sweating today. I made sure I used both hands when I held the wheel. I stopped completely at stop signs and looked both ways before crossing. I put my blinkers on way before I needed to. When it was my time to drive through a set of cones, I did okay. I actually hit one driving back through one, but I did better on my second run. I felt as nervous as the teenagers had been that morning too. One girl's mom was there who gave me a congrats. Her own daughter was taking her test that day too. Nothing makes you feel younger like taking a driving test.

I was able to get my license renewed shortly afterwards. I felt like the kids I saw with their parents, embarrassed to show my picture to my youngest daughter when she wanted to check if I had properly smiled.

There's more chances for renewals and deadlines at work this year. My teaching license is due this year as well, and like my typical self I'm running towards the finish line on fumes. I'm 2 credits shy of renewal, which means I have to take a class in May to get it done. Nothing life doing it the hard way.

In all this time I've had to wait in lines and wait for my number to be called, I've taken lots of time to find that silver lining. I decided not to post on Facebook cause I didn't want to seem like I was complaining. Overall, the system worked for me. No one was rude. No one was impolite. But I did understand what some people have to go through being in court that day. A little empathy hurts no one.

I know there's a lesson about change in this story too. It just so happens that I have been reading a book called "Christian Atheist" by Craig Groeschel. Of course I came across the chapter titled, "When You Believe in God but Don't Think You Can Change" right as I'm going through all this. The book's theme is that we believe and we go to church and check the boxes, but when it comes to allowing the true work of God to take place in our heart, we act much as if God doesn't exist like an atheist would. Even though I am not the same person I was when I became a Christian, I get myself into these ruts. My past has been a yoke I have yet to allow God to have. I'm great at praying for others, or believing in the power of Jesus to heal others, but when it comes to my own life I have yet to fully give control once and for all. I still cling to bad habits like high school love letters. Craig says in his book that for me to allow God to be God, to do things in His strength instead of my own, one must can the excuses, cut the ties that bind and surrender. He points to the story of the paralyzed man in the book of John.

When Jesus realized the man had been by the pool at Bethesda for a long time, he asked the invalid, "Do you want to be healed?" The man didn't answer with a resounding yes! You'd think he would have, but he says, "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me." How typical is that for us too. God is continually reaching down to cure us of our addictions and hangups. "Do you want to be healed?"

Yeah but I know have others to heal so don't bother.
Yeah but my sin is too great. Why would you?
Yeah but I can't change who I am even if you would heal me?

Maybe this time I will allow the work to work. Renewing the license leads to a spiritual lesson in renewal. Who knew?